Free As the Birds, Wild As the Winds
by le-ouiaboo
Summary: Spain/America, France/Spain: de-anon from the kink meme, Spain introducing horses to a baby America, teaching him how to ride.


**Free as the Birds, Wild as the Winds**

* * *

He felt the child's presence before ever catching sight of him, a brief taste of lightning in the air, a wondrous shiver down his spine.

"Someone like us, could the rumors be true?" Spain thought, hurriedly guiding his stallion towards that feeling as soldiers, sailors and priests fell far behind. In that hopeful moment, he allowed himself to believe Veneziano's silly stories about a child he kept seeing in the vast empty wilderness of the New World. After all, Italy was still young and inexperienced, and could not possibly recognize the strange sensation of finding a new nation.

Then all thoughts scattered before the wind that rushed through his russet hair, though he knew that Amado - that beautiful, intelligent creature - could sense his own giddy excitement, by the way the steed moved with swift obedience to the slightest of pressure on the reins. Easily covering the distance with graceful strides, unrivaled masters of this fair earth, horse and rider soon found themselves alone in a field of tossing waves of grass.

Spain inspected the isolated scene before him, calm, composed, completely in control, only to be startled by a high-pitched scream from somewhere to his right. He nearly yelped aloud himself, quickly glancing about for the source of the scream as Amado backed up a pace or two, snorting in nervousness. But there was no other sound to be heard, just the wind blowing, a bird chirping, leaves rustling, the faintest jingle of bridle and stirrups.

Ever so carefully, the nation dismounted, trying his best to not clank so loudly in suddenly cumbersome armor. He called out softly as he stepped towards where he thought the sound originated, first in Spanish, then switching to Italian, French, even that unpleasant-sounding English…  
Still no answer.

Spain almost gave up then, but unexpectedly, he noticed a flicker of movement disturbing the lazy ripples of grass. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw golden hair, bright blue eyes, a perfect semblance of childlike innocence that vanished before he could even draw near. There was nothing to show where the child had lain hidden in the grass, not a trace of his warm energy left upon the air, as if he suddenly discovered how to blanket such a powerful presence and completely disappear. The nation sighed heavily, disappointed, yet thrilled to the bone at this incredible discovery.

"No dream, but reality. He exists… _Un milagro_."

* * *

He could barely fall asleep that night, and that was something unusual indeed for such a nation. Closing his eyes, Spain prayed to the saints to make the sun come up sooner, so he may resume the search for that golden child before he escaped forever. Unfortunately, the hours did not while away any faster, and finally he gave up trying to sleep.

Perhaps the saints did answer his prayers after all, because Spain had not been walking about, barefoot and bleary-eyed, for more than a few moments before he chanced upon the mysterious child crouched by the horses, dressed in a ragged over-sized white shirt. But he was noticed instantly, and with a tiny squeak, the baby nation got to his feet and darted off into the gloom. Spain cursed to himself as a skittish mare inconveniently chose that time to cause a ruckus among the other horses.

At least this time, he could guess as to what drew the child so near to camp, and he resolved to tame this young nation, as he had spent so many years raising the proud horses of his sun-drenched land to become the finest steeds in all of Europe, the envy and desire of kings and knights and generals. It would be difficult, Spain had to admit he did not always have a way with children, but he wanted so badly to possess something that England and France could not claim and use against him. And surely, God smiled down on him now, for here was the perfect chance to act before those two got here...

* * *

The next morning, he set out into the wilderness before the soldiers broke fast, following what faint sense he could gather of the child. He remembered that they called this to-be nation America back home, after the Italian who supposedly first discovered this land. Though that fact bothered him a little, Spain had to admit that he liked the name, how it rolled off the tongue so musically, like a part of him and yet not.

"America, America," Spain whispered, trying out the name, as Amado settled into a smooth and easy trot. The warm sun shone down on rolling yellow grasslands, here and there dotted with stands of twisted trees, while the occasional hawk flew overhead. Today, he was in a good mood, even though the unspoken war with England and his stubborn fox-queen was not going well, and even though the royal debts once again made Spain another target for his devious neighbor's machinations. At least here he was free from the obligations of war-torn Europe, if only for a little while, before trouble at home called him back again.

Eventually, Amado slowed to a graceful stop, and Spain dismounted, spurs jangling loudly in the wind-filled landscape. America, who had been singing to himself until Spain's arrival cut him short, slid off of the sandstone boulder he was sitting on and then peeked out from behind it shyly. Spain smiled as charmingly as he could, to reassure America of his (more or less) good intentions. Unable to resist such a friendly expression, the child smiled back, hesitant but not afraid.

"Hello there, little America… My name is _España_. Do you remember me?"

America nodded, apparently able to understand him, but did not come any closer. Spain waited for the space of a few heartbeats, decided that the little nation was not going to contribute anything further, and so continued talking.

"This one here is called Amado. It means 'beloved of God.'" On cue, the white stallion tossed his head and whinnied softly. America giggled, delighted, and Spain had to bite his lower lip in an effort to resist grabbing the child and giving him a hug. It was difficult, very difficult, but he mastered the urge.

Of course, it would never be as easy as it was with that first dusky-skinned island child, enticed into his arms with only a handful of glittering baubles… But he had left the conquistadors behind on this day, and here it was only him and the Andalusian and an infant nation.

Kneeling down in the grass, now eye-level with America, Spain spoke fondly of his home, where dazzling court beauties walked in cool white halls and gangly foals frolicked in sunny pastures. As he talked, Amado stepped over and nuzzled his messy brown hair restlessly, and Spain laughed.

"How could I forget? You're the object of this conversation." He patted the pockets in his breeches and retrieved a handful of oats to offer to the horse. By now, America had crept closer out of curiosity, and with a grin, Spain motioned him over.

"Here, you can feed him, too."

He dropped a small amount of the grains into America's tiny outstretched palm, and then gently steered him towards the stallion. America squeaked as he felt Amado's lips brush against his hand, eliciting another merry laugh from Spain.

"Don't worry, he won't bite, he's a very good horse."

After they finished feeding Amado his oats, Spain wiped at their slobber-covered hands with a handkerchief, gazing at America with an absolutely entranced look on his face.

"Ah, he's so cute, so so cute," Spain thought, almost dazed by his stroke of good luck. He took this chance to indulge his previous desire by drawing America close enough to take in his little-boy smell, all grass stains and dirt and rabbits and charming adventures like the kind he used to have with his brothers before they started trying to kill each other...

Spain looked up as a shadow that was distinctively not horse-shaped darkened the ground before him, and a jolt of terror ran through his body.

Slowly, the nation let go of little America, keeping his eyes on the female native who was aiming a flint-tipped arrow right at his heart. She stared down at him coldly, exasperatedly, and in the part of his mind that could still process thoughts, he soon realized that this warrior woman was much more than she seemed, though sadly not nearly as significant as the blond ward she guarded. His fault, no doubt, though he did not feel particularly sorry for what his men had done to her people.

Spain held his hands up to show that he carried no weapons with him. (It was rather hard to carry an axe on horseback anyway, and he had left most of his armor and weapons behind when he set out so as to not frighten the young nation.) With a huff, the warrior lowered her bow and arrow as another boy led America out of the reach of the Spaniard.

Though they moved quickly off into the cover of some thin saplings, he saw that the older child, otherwise tanned and raven-haired, had piercing blue eyes of a very familiar shade.

"_Dios_…" Spain cursed under his breath. "That greedy whoreson bastard! I can't believe it, I thought we chased him out already."

He stood up as soon as he thought it safe, as soon as the woman backed off, her charges safely away from this predator. Almost shaking with fury, Spain mounted and rode back to camp at breakneck speed, nearly overcome with the impending headache that always predicted troubles across the Atlantic Ocean.

England, it must be that bastard England, he thought, and it could be that pervert France as well, _mierda_, shit, why, why now? He gritted his teeth, frustrated at being caught yet again between two powers, not aware of the eyes that followed the swiftness of his journey in wonder and envy.

* * *

_[interlude: Spain, 1588]_

_"Espagne…"_

Spain ignored the silken voice, keeping his gaze fixed outside. He did not look up as someone approached his seat by the windowsill, preceded by a faint scent of roses and musk. But Spain was never one to dawdle in court intrigue, so he asked sharply, "What do you want, _Francia?_ Are we not at war?"

"Our kings are at war, _oui_," France agreed, languid and careless as he patted the other's shoulder out of familial concern. "But we are still brothers and friends, is that not so?"

He glanced up at the elegantly dressed nation out of the corner of his eye, at this creature who would kiss you one day and then stab you in the back the next. Silver-tongued France, who always maintained that he was a lover and not a fighter, as if a lover could not just as easily destroy a life.

"I asked you, what do you want?" he repeated, meeting those blue eyes for the first time, trying to discover the other nation's true intentions behind the veil of long lashes.

"Nothing, nothing," France chuckled, tilting his head slightly in mock sympathy. "What, is it so improper that I should offer comfort to my brother after his defeat?"

With a humph of displeasure, Spain looked away from the simpering figure pressing close to his side, one gloved hand already sneaking lower to rub at the small of his back.

"Leave me alone, I don't need your fake pity."

Ignoring this statement, France leaned forward and kissed his ear, his cheek, the yellowing bruise on his jaw.

"Poor thing, look how he hurt you! How dare he…"

Spain did not respond at first, already recalling with despair how the fleet of ships broke and scattered under the onslaught of the storm and then English fire. In his mind, he could still hear the screams of drowning sailors and soldiers and horses, whose ghosts would haunt him from the black depths of the ocean and the foaming crests of the waves for years to come. Even as he sighed, one hand rubbing at his hair, he felt France's lips brush against his own, and he could not help but smile at the attention.

But so close, Spain could smell a different aroma underneath the flowery perfume, a lingering scent of seawater and gunpowder and old blood, familiar and loathsome. He jerked away, as much as he could in the confined space, then shoved France backward onto the tiled floor.

"Spain! Wh-what is the meaning of this?" France cried out, scrabbling at the bandaged hands quickly closing around his throat.

Spain glared at him, pulling the other nation off the floor only to slam him back down again, so that the other made a muffled whimper from the pain.

"Tell me, dear brother, do you spread your legs for anyone? Or do you like to start with my enemies?"

To his credit, France did not deny the accusation or plead for mercy, only grinned, despite Spain's knee digging into his belly.

"Yes, my rightful king accepted help from the English, what of it? Their fleet had defeated the _invincible_ Spanish Armada after all, and he thought it would be wise to form an alliance against you. Anyone else would do the same."

Spain barely refrained from spitting in disgust, and instead muttered, "I could kill you right now, with my bare hands. Though I should have expected such from a slut-"

With an unexpected surge of strength, France managed to throw Spain off and onto a nearby table. There was a loud crack as the table legs gave way, and Spain gasped as the air was knocked out of him. He got to his feet at once, wincing at another bruised rib, and just as quickly, France recovered.

For a few tense moments, they stared at each other, breathing harsh and unsteady. Then France smiled, flippant as ever, as if their hands were not at the daggers hanging from their belts.

"Darling Spain, because I love you so, I will tell you this, for your own well-being." In contrast to the words, his tone held not one bit of affection.

"_Que_? What?" Spain asked, straightening up from the fighting stance cautiously, still remaining alert.

"It would be best if you attend to your colonies while you still can. And keep your nose out of our affairs." He did not – could not - miss the double meaning there, and Spain scowled deeply at the implication. "You will not be alone in the New World from now on, and nothing you do is going to change that."

Spain closed his eyes, a sudden image of a small golden-haired infant flashing in his vision, and he felt a pang of guilt and bewilderment lancing through his heart.

"No, of course not…"

"If you understand, then fine." The other nation tossed his hair and straightened his clothes as best as he could, frowning at an imaginary speck of dust on the dark fur cuffs of his coat. "Farewell, _mon frere,_ I will see you again… Hopefully on better terms."

Still feeling stunned, Spain nodded automatically, mustering up another smile as he led his guest to the front door, getting his revenge by giving France a not-too-gentle shove on the way out.

Turning to the sullen child who had been watching from a doorway, he sighed and grinned apologetically.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, Romano."

"Does this mean you have to leave again?"

"Yes. I have to take care of some things, you understand."

"I… You… Don't you dare hurt yourself again, you idiot. I hate having to take care of you!" Not that he did much in the way of tending to one's injuries, but the thought was there.

"No, no, I'll be careful this time, I promise. I'll return home as soon as possible."

"You better!" Romano stamped his foot peevishly, eyes suspiciously wet. "Stupid boss, stupid colonies…"

"Ah ha hah…" Not knowing what else to do, Spain held out a hand invitingly. "Come on, Romano, let's go see to the horses together."

_[end interlude]_

* * *

He opened one eye and saw a sweet childish face looking down at him, little brows furrowed in worry.

"Ah!" America scampered off again instinctively, though he remained in sight this time, half hidden behind a bush.

Blinking the sleep away, Spain stretched and smiled, sitting back against the cottonwood tree. He waited until America gave into his curiosity and finally toddled over, holding something in his arms.

"What's this?" he asked, as he was offered something small and round and red-orange. Spain thought it was an apple until he was encouraged to bite into the soft juicy flesh, and his taste buds were overwhelmed with the sweet-sour flavor. No, not like an apple at all. But he grinned broadly after the initial surprise and patted America on the head, thanking him for the gift.

The little nation chirped, pleased at the attention, and then he tugged at Spain's sleeve, pointing to the bandages with a concerned frown.

"Ah, these? Well, I was beat up pretty badly when I went back home. My neighbors are violent… and very greedy." Sounds familiar, he thought with wry amusement. "I guess I deserved it, in a way… But talking about that is boring, let's do something more interesting!"

Spain got to his feet and America trailed behind him as they approached the grazing horses. From his excited squeaks, it sounded like America was delighted to see Amado again, and even offered the still proud stallion another of the odd fruits which Spain promptly had to take away.

"I don't think we should feed the horses something strange like this, little one."

America pouted, but then as mercurial as the wind, his mood changed, and he reached up on tip-toe and patted Amado's nose fondly, giggling when the horse tried to nibble on his straw-colored hair.

"It's time then," Spain thought to himself. "Though I will miss them both dearly."

He then picked America up and placed him squarely on Amado's blanket-covered back. The child made a noise of surprise and held on tightly to Spain's shirt, afraid to let go. Laughing, the older nation made soothing noises until America summoned up the courage to twine chubby fingers into the horse's mane. With one hand gripping the back of the child's shirt, Spain walked alongside Amado and America, every now and then explaining the commands. The language barrier had lessened in his absence, and America quickly picked up "go" and more importantly, "stop."

They spent the rest of the daylight hours together in this manner, taking a break once to eat and go through the proper care of a horse, cleaning and wiping down, feeding and watering. Spain spoke as clearly as he could, having caught a glimpse of the other child skulking around in the tall grass a while ago and sincerely hoped that they would not forget his instructions. He placed the rest of his trust in the intelligence and loyalty of his steeds, and in God in heaven above.

Just as the sun set, America demonstrated the best horsemanship that Spain could possibly expect in the limited time, seeing as his student was mentally two years old and could not speak any language he knew. Sighing in regret, he decided that he could no longer put off the inevitable.

"Listen to me, America…"

The child stopped attempting to make Amado go faster than a walk and looked at him, heartbreakingly innocent.

"I… won't be visiting you anymore, as much as I would like to."

He sighed, the words he needed to say becoming too difficult to express.

"I did my best to discourage them, but France and England, and maybe others, plan to settle in these lands. You will meet them soon…"

Spain stroked America's hair thoughtfully, wondering which one would find this child, what it would mean to his own children and the rest of the world. But such deep thoughts did not suit him, and instead he smiled weakly at America.

"They aren't bad people, but… well, you'll see. Maybe you'll even come to like them. They'd definitely like you."

By now they had wandered a fair distance away from the rest of the camp, two saddled mares in tow. With one last kiss on those pink cheeks, Spain finally let go of America, who looked back at him in dawning realization of their separation. His blue eyes instantly welled up with tears, and he made a brave effort to not sniffle too loudly, ultimately failing. This caused Spain to blink back his own tears, and he buried his face into Amado's mane, stroking the horse's neck.

"Take care of him,_ mi hermano_," he whispered into stallion's ears, and Amado whickered softly, encouragingly. Now that it was actually happening, Spain almost doubted that he could go through with this sacrifice, even after all of the logical and sensible reasons he invented during the long voyage back to the New World - that he should leave America with a reminder of what it had been like to be independent and strong, the means to explore wherever he wanted, the strength to be himself no matter what may happen when the others arrived…

But in the end, Spain just smiled. He did not say good bye. He only said…

"America, be free."

* * *

_[epilogue]_

He could sense a shadow blocking the sunlight though closed eyelids, and so he blinked and looked up to see a familiar face, eyes the color of the afternoon sky and hair the streaming gold of cities conquered centuries ago.

"I dreamt that I finally discovered the fountains of youth," Spain murmured, running a thumb across the smooth flushed cheek of the nation looking down at him.

Grinning, America rolled his eyes, in his trademark "Europeans are so weird" expression.

"I saw the seven cities of gold glittering in the sun," he continued, combing his fingers through perfectly styled strands of hair while America turned his face slightly to kiss the palm of his hand.

"And I found the lost city of El Dorado." Pulling the younger nation closer, Spain touched his lips to the other's smiling mouth, and laughed in surprise when the other nation planted kisses all over his face.

"Umm, weren't the cities of gold supposed to be a little further south?" America asked archly. He then yelped as Spain nudged him meaningfully in the groin and moved off to let him sit up.

"I was a little lost back then," Spain whispered, the last of his dreams of glory days already fading away.

"Hey, Spain… don't look so sad." America, always the hero, forever unable to resist someone looking distressed. "I do remember you, you know, and the horses. Mostly the horses."

"Well, that makes me feel better. Spoiled English brat." Though Spain did not sound particularly angry.

America's answering laughter sounded bright and earnest and infectious. "But I never said thank you, right? Well… _Gracias."_

Spain felt his heart break and heal all at once, and he smiled, dazzling as the sun. "_De nada."_

It was nothing, he said. But it meant everything to hear that from the child he had once captured and then freed... only to be captured by him in return.

* * *

[Author's Note: I might have some mistakes in the Spanish and other details, but I am leaving this unedited in its original form. Yaaaay, I think this is the last full fic I have written from the good old glory days, I will be posting the rest of the fills as a collection of stories. I hope you enjoyed, thanks again for reading. Peace.]


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